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EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

ROBERT BURNS.

I.

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' Friend,
A something to have sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae other end
Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

II.

Ye'll try the warld soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
E'en when your end 's attained;
And a' your views may come to naught,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

III.

I'll no say, men are villains a';

The real, harden'd wicked,

Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricted;

But och, mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted;

If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted!

IV.

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may have an honest heart,
Tho' poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

V.

Aye free aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel'
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' every other man,
Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection.

VI.

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Tho' naething should divulge it;
I wave the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But och it hardens a' within,

And petrifies the feeling!

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

VII.

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,

Assiduous wait upon her;

And gather gear by ev'ry wile

That's justified by honor; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train-attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.

VIII.

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honor grip,
aye be your border;

Let that

Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side pretences,
And resolutely keep its laws,

Uncaring consequences.

IX.

The great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear,

And ev'n the rigid feature:

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,

Be complaisance extended;

An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange

For Deity offended!

X.

When ranting round in Pleasure's ring,

Religion may be blinded;

Or, if she gie a random sting,

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But when on life we 're tempest-driv❜n,
A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n,
Is sure a noble anchor.

XI.

Adieu, dear amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting: May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting!

In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,' Still daily to grow wiser;

And may you better reck the rede,

Than ever did th' adviser!

DEPARTED JOYS.

W. K. SPENSER.

WHEN midnight o'er the moonless skies
Her pall of transient death has spread,
When mortals sleep, when specters rise,
And none are wakeful but the dead;
No bloodless shape my way pursues,

No sheeted ghost my couch annoys;
Visions more sad my fancy views,—
Visions of long departed joys.

THE NATIVITY.

JOHN MILTON.

Ir was the winter wild,

While the Heaven-born child,

All meanly wrapt, in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe to him,

Had doffed her gaudy trim,

With her great Master so to sympathize:

It was no season then for her

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

Only with speeches fair

She wooes the gentle air

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame,

Pollute with sinful blame,

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes

Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But he, her fears to cease,

Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;

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